ébréchure
by Takigawa Aki
Summary: Oh, what a tangled web we weave. In the wake of Elena's death, Alaude isn't sure how to trust these two men with their inexplicable intentions... PriCavxAlaudexDaemon super angst
1. Prologue

**Warnings: **little angst, maybe some OOC-ness (I'm shaky with Alaude so far), future lots of angst, and a lemon without detail

**AN: **I've had this done since November and didn't plan on publishing it till the entire fic was done, but I'm hoping some reviews on the early chapters will be more...motivating? I have it all plotted out and such. I know this is short, and chapters here will vary in length, I'm not trying to make them similar at all. Um, I know there's wacky formatting here, but it IS ON PURPOSE. If it's annoying or distracting, please tell me; I'm experimenting.

**Soundtrack: **Naked Angel - Armin van Buuren

**ébréchure**

**Prologue**

"Enzo."

As always, the Cavallone boss's smile was like honey. Sweet, but not too much. Maybe a little inviting. He tilted his head in response, chocolate-coloured hair falling off of his forehead to be disturbed by the breeze—not that it made a difference. His hair was always a little ragged, as if he'd just woken up from a nap; his face had the same sleepy features, relaxed and a little distant. Long lashes framed expressive caramel eyes; his smile was slow and assured, the type that made everyone in the room feel as if it was meant especially for them.

"Alaude," he replied softly. His voice was even, low, almost a purr. Enough to make anyone trip over their own feet for him. "I'm glad you came." As if he thought he wouldn't.

He nodded slowly. His blonde hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away with a hand. His ring was cold on his forehead. "What did you need?"

-x-

It sent him reeling.

First it was the heat, then the pressure. Then it was the breath against his lip, hot and musky. The hand that combed through his hair as if cherishing something precious. It seemed like he was still for a long time before his lips yielded to the gentle prods, the soft touches, the hand that now brushed his cheek slowly. Savouring. He didn't know that his arms had risen till he felt a heartbeat beneath his fingers. One hand wound around to tangle in his hair, and he marveled at the softness of the curls.

It was a slow kiss. Like he would have imagined from this man, had he ever thought to do so.

They were strong arms that wrapped around his waist and pressed him against Enzo's chest. Strong and gentle. So puzzlingly gentle. Nimble fingers that began, in time, to tug at his coat, at his shirt, never impatient or urgent. That brushed across his chest softly as if memorizing every line. That traced circles on his shoulders, down his spine, caressed his hips.

Throbbing heat and whirling feelings. His fingers delving along the plains of Enzo's stomach, curious and captivated. That honey smile and a soft glimmer in caramel eyes as his hand was lifted to his smooth face, palm kissed. It sent a shiver down his spine, breath on the soft skin of his wrist. His voice was soft, almost a whisper when he murmured that man's name, just before their lips pressed together again, his breath stuck in his throat, fingertips tingling, eyes slowly sliding shut.

-x-

The lips on his neck made his knees weak. He heard that name again on his lips, barely there in an exhalation of surrender. He heard his own name murmured against his shoulder, soft as a caress. It was maddening and soothing at the same time, contradictory and enveloping. It was the hands along his skin, appreciating every detail like it was a work of art. It was the lips that followed them, attentive and warm. It was like something he'd never imagined, never thought to consider. It was teasing, prodding, pulling him to look for more. It was the slick feeling of his own perspiration at the small of his back, the heat of two bodies so close. It was—

_No._  
It wasn't.  
It wasn't any of it.  
His breath came quickly as Alaude sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead, eyes wide open in alarm as he looked around the room.  
_Dream._  
It took too long for his heart to slow down. His hand was resting on his chest as if it would help. His nightshirt was tangled around him. Finally, the rhythm slowed, softened, and the upset gradually began to fade.  
He'd had the dream for weeks.  
It hadn't happened like that.

_It was warm and sweet, the touch on his lips, slow and tantalizing. It blew everything else from his mind, pulling him into the sensation, until he gave way, lips moving with Enzo's, a hand reaching up to tentatively run through his thick curls. His coat had fallen to the carpet silently. It was so much temptation. So much beckoning.  
_Give in.  
_Let him have you.  
Give in, every bit of you.  
Into _this._  
_No._  
And he'd pushed him away. He was pale—he _felt_ pale. He took his coat, pulled it on quickly, sparing an unreadable look over his shoulder, back at the devastated expression on Enzo's face, and walked out the door._

That was what had happened.

He took a last, slow breath and turned to look at the clock. The soft ticking was soothing, an imperturbable rhythm, untouched by fatigue or upset. Reliable so long as it was wound every Sunday.  
Four o'clock.  
With a shake of his head and a sharp sneer of annoyance he put the clock back on the nightstand with a soft _thump_ and rolled over to go back to sleep.


	2. Chapter One

**Soundtrack: **Not Enough Time - Cosmic Gate feat. Emma Hewitt

**ébréchure  
Chapter One**

The sharp retort of a pistol made him grimace. He wound deftly through debris, gaze constantly roaming around the area to search for enemies. It seemed the fight was already winding to a close. How long had it been? An hour? Not much more. A hiss escaped his clenched teeth as a bullet sliced the air an inch from his shoulder; midstep he spun, a handgun held high, and fired off several shots. Stone shivered, dented, dust stirring in the air. There was the sound of a body hitting the cobblestone and after a wary look around he turned to continue deeper into the compound, jogging over splintered rock and spilt blood. Were it any darker he might even have tripped.

The sight of a familiar face in the rubble, eyes wide in death, made him scowl. The CEDEF had been in the Vongola headquarters for two days, a semi-annual exchange of information and renegotiation of their relationship. Any other time they would have been a hundred miles away or more. Perhaps the attack had been planned with that in mind—to take out two birds with one stone, so to speak.

The further he went, the duller the sounds of fighting. The walls were thick, making it all the more distant. Now and then there was a sharp gunshot closer, but never within danger. Since it had begun Alaude had only seen quick glimpses of the other guardians, here and there, protecting the building passionately. Everything from bombs to swords rang through the air, but here was only the dull boom of firearms and explosions. It didn't bode well for the family.

The lights were out, even the torches or candles as if some great draft had stolen through the building. He was too far inside to see any windows. Staircases and hallways were blackened with soot and char, joists cracked, walls completely obliterated. The corridor was relatively untouched—well-defended through the attack, though the dead of both the Vongola and the enemy were littered about, each as equal to the other in death.

He stopped at a pair of double doors half again as tall as he was. One hung off its hinges; he could see the burnt wood on the other side of the great slab of wood. With a little growl deep in his throat he pushed at it, refusing to think of what was happening; only on the task at hand. Finally it gave way and slammed to the ground with a sound like a cannon, sending dust flying through the air.

A huge room, like a cavern, stood before him. On the far side the wall was crumpled, torn full of holes like any piece of cotton, windows shattered and glass lying scattered along the tile. Tapestries were still smoking. At first there was no sound but the louder bursts of violence outside; gradually, his ears adjusted and he heard the sobbing. His expression was unreadable, sharp and observant as he stepped around a large pile of rubble—a patch of sunlight said it was from the ceiling above—and towards the sound. The footsteps were slow, assured. Alaude operated best under pressure, after all. But there was a sense of foreboding about all of this, some unwanted anticipation that tightened his chest beneath his dust-covered overcoat.

It seemed as if everything had slowed down. Perhaps it had, without the urgency of imminent battle. A patch of colour, dampened by dirt, drew his eyes. Another step, and another.

-x-

Daemon's head rose at the sound of his footfalls, eyes wide, expression stricken. "Alaude…" His voice was hoarse, face daubed with the same dust in his hair. "She's—" He cut off, jaw clenching. In his arms was a small, broken body, no different from the others that crowded the rest of the compound like so much trash. "Alaude." A pleading expression. He'd seen desperation before, but never on that face, never directed so closely at him. "I'm sorry. I'm so…"

His expression didn't change. Closed, as always. He exhaled slowly.

He shut out the voice calling his name as he turned to continue walking. Look for his people. There was nothing to do here.

-x-

_Her smile was just as sweet as always._

He'd been listening to her for days, never giving an answer, perhaps a shrug if she said something that rang particularly true. There was a newspaper spread on the table before him as he sipped his tea. It was hard to get tea in Italy; here, everyone drank coffee. It was alright, but it had a grainy, bitter taste that left him pining after the savoury chamomile and refreshing peppermint tea he was used to. Alaude folded his hands together, elbows on the table, and leant his chin on them as if poring over the periodical. She only chuckled—she knew better than to think he was ignoring her.

"It wouldn't hurt anything, you know," she said suddenly. His gaze flicked up to her for a second before returning down to the paper; she hadn't tried this tact before. "Mister Giotto is a very good man. If you decided you didn't like being in the family after all then I'm sure he'd only give his best wishes to you as you left. The Vongola is going to be an amazing thing."

Right. The Italian man with the unkempt hair and the piercing eyes; he'd come to Alaude through one of his informants a month before. He'd begrudgingly agreed to meet him a week after. It had been puzzling, to say the least. Who would come to strangers with some family so new it could be crushed like an ant underfoot? But, in some way, he'd liked the quiet smile and the fiery gaze that Giotto had carried himself with. There was something impressive—not power, no, but potential. Charisma, that was it. That was what it took to make something truly great.

He had to admit to being mildly interested in the concept. It sounded sort of like the legend of Robin Hood, a band of mismatched vigilantes all chasing after corruption to bring justice to the world. The idea of this in earnest was nearly laughable. But still, there was that something tickling at his mind that made him think if anyone could pull it off it was this mysteriously trusting brunette with the messy hair and casual aura.

So he didn't really blame Elena for being so attracted to the idea. She was an optimist, after all. Always believing the best in people, always seeing the silver lining. Always so sweet he couldn't help but be a little bit fond of his cousin. "What if I want to be the boss of my own family?" he asked suddenly, mildly taking a sip of tea. It seemed she always kept a stock of French teas just in case he visited her home in Italy. Dropping by was like a little return back to his home of France. Perhaps it was just a bribe she kept to be sure he'd keep her company now and then; she was clever like that, more than one would think.

The little villa was just outside of the city. The skyline in the west was that of buildings, in the east of hills and rolling plains and wildflowers that were bright in every season. But it was isolated, something he'd been concerned about more than once for a young, beautiful woman to live in alone. The city was fifteen minutes' brisk walk away and well out of earshot. She never seemed to worry, though, and so he left it alone.

She regarded him with surprise, clear blue eyes wide. "Oh—really, Alaude? Is that what you want to do?" For a moment she seemed unsure of how to respond before a wide smile spread across her face. It seemed to brighten the room.

"No." His voice was flat, gaze never leaving the paper that he wasn't quite reading.

There was silence for a long moment before she laughed. A hand rose to cover her mouth, shoulders shaking, somehow managing to look dainty nonetheless. "Oh, Alaude, you had me going there for a minute! You're a rascal."

He couldn't quite hold back a very small smile as he took another drink.


	3. Chapter Two

**Soundtrack: **Bring On the Wonder - Susan Enan

**ébréchure  
Chapter Two**

There was something about her that he'd never quite understood.

As sweet, as optimistic as Elena was, there was something distinctly _logical_ about her. She had a tendency to overthink things—she just couldn't leave them alone until she had every last detail of something organized in its little box in her mind, and if something didn't fit, it left her confused until she could reorient the labels and settle back into contentment. That, he could fathom. In a way, he was the same, relying on facts and evidence and laws to provide his perception of the world.

But sometimes she stepped out of her own box. Every once in a while he would catch a little twinkle in her eye that was almost resignation, as she accepted something that she couldn't understand. He'd seen it when they were teens and their other cousins would fight, whether over a girl or a horse or plain ego, when she'd slowly shake her head and purse her lips and instead of looking lost, would give a small smile and close her eyes before she turned to walk away.

Those were the times he realized that she wasn't as plain-edged as he'd thought she was.

First it was the rosary he noticed on her bedstand one day when he helped her fix an uneven leg on her bed. He'd never asked her about it, though he was certain she'd never mentioned church or said grace before a meal. That sort of thing was between a person and themselves; it wasn't his business to ask.

-x-

Once, he'd walked to her villa with a single bag over his shoulder. It had been dark, the early night of a long winter, when he stepped off of the path and began to tread along the rudimentary cobblestones to her door. She was sitting in the open window of the den, fire crackling loudly behind her in the fireplace, oblivious to his approach, facing out towards the hills with a distant expression. Perhaps, he'd thought curiously, it was even what people would call longing.

Dangling between her fingers, twisting and untwisting, tangling and straightening, was the little ivory rosary. She'd set it down when she noticed him, already beginning to smile, and as if nothing was odd she'd ushered him inside, closed the window, and gone about making dinner for the both of them.

-x-

It wasn't that he had anything against religion, really. It was just a tradition he didn't partake in. His mother had been particularly devout, though his father had never done anything but shrug when he'd asked about God as a child. Religion was inspiration; it was motivation. It was something to cling to, to make the world a little steadier. In a way, skepticism and cold, hard facts were his religion. It was how a person chose to interpret the world, what made the way they saw things.

He was remembering the rosary, wondering where it had gone, when he turned her journal over in his hands, impassively looking at her name written in curling script on the spine. A ribbon held it closed.

Daemon hadn't come to clear her room in the Vongola compound yet. It was deep enough that it been relatively untouched, though he imagined that it had rankled her not to have any windows. She always liked to see the grass and the flowers and to feel the breeze, even when it was cold or wet outside.

It took a long time to untie the ribbon and open the book. Something about it made him feel sort of ashamed, as if she would walk through the door any moment and see him going through her things. He could picture the surprised, hurt look in her eyes as she'd ask him why he was reading her journal. His gaze fell on the beginning of an entry in the middle of the volume.

_My little brother asked me today what God is._

An old entry. His brows furrowed a little. Alfeo had died in a fall from a horse four years before. He'd been nine then.

_I didn't really know what to tell him. Not for a long time._

_I didn't answer him for days. It wasn't that I didn't want to. But I hadn't thought about it in a long, long time. He has a good point. What _is_ God? It seems like women cling to Him for strength, and men yell of Him for vindication. But that can't be all, for Him to have lasted so long. I was once told that I seemed like a very devout woman by someone in the city to whom I used to speak. She even asked if I was going to become a nun. The thought is dizzying._

_So being devout means being good, doesn't it? _

_No. I thought about it very hard until I came back to Alfeo and sat down with him. His eyes were so big as he looked at me. What a sweet boy, and here he was, looking for some hint at perfection. What is God to a child? Something to scare away the bogeyman? Explanation for everything they don't understand, perhaps. But then why isn't it discarded, like all fairy tales, as a person ages? _

_I couldn't bear to lie to him. So I told him the truth._

_"I don't know about any man in the sky who tells us how to live, or any son of his who rose from the dead," I told him. "But I know there's something that we'll never understand. I know there is good in the world and there is bad in the world and there always will be. And I think that whether someone's listening or not, if you pray for help, then afterwards you'll feel better about it."_

_It was obvious he couldn't quite fathom what I was talking about, but like some eager student he nodded and leapt up to kiss me on the cheek. "Thank you, Elena!" he said. "Father said that God is a sail and we're all boats. You make more sense."_

_That made me laugh, because it was the same thing._

_I couldn't stop thinking about it, though. I pulled the rosary that mother had given me from my dresser and was sitting in the window earlier. Alaude caught me. What a silly woman I must have looked. But he didn't ask._

_Bless him._

The journal closed with a loud thump. He hadn't realized that he was so tense; his shoulders ached from the pressure. Gradually he forced his neck to relax, then his back, breathing slowly. _Bless him._ Oh, Elena, he thought with a tiny, bemused smile. I'll never understand.

-x-

There was a little sound as the door opened behind him. Alaude looked over his shoulder impassively at the familiar figure standing there. Daemon was a vain man, but now he looked ragged. There were dark blotches beneath his eyes and his hair was unkempt. His jacket was rumpled.

"Alaude," he murmured softly.

He turned back to looking down at the book in his hands. "You hadn't cleaned the room after a week." An explanation for his being there, though Daemon had been her lover. He heard the soft rustle of fabric as the man shrugged.

"I know." He stepped further into the room, gaze landing on the book. For a moment he seemed thoughtful, and then he looked up at Alaude's face. "You can keep that, you know."

For a long moment he was quiet; his thumb was stroking the ribbon as if admiring the smoothness of it. Expressionless, he held it out and let it fall onto the bed. "There's no point." She's dead.

As he turned to walk out he noticed something beside the door. Hanging from the back of the chair—a little ivory rosary. He didn't pause in his steps even when he heard Daemon call his name quietly, almost pleadingly. Without a word he left the room and finally the Vongola land, expression never changing. It was pointless to keep something of a dead person's.

Nonetheless, the rosary was tucked carefully into his jacket.

-x-

"It's been a long time."

Alaude didn't respond to the man standing at his back. The window in front of him was interesting enough, with its wide view of the rolling hills and distant cities of Italy. The glass reflected the image of the brunette hovering, his expression tentative. He'd just gotten a haircut; the chocolate curls only just touched the nape of his neck. He could remember the feel of them sliding through his fingers.

Enzo tilted his head a little as if he was debating what else to say; colour, paled by the reflection, caught his eye. The tattoo. He'd always been a little fascinated by it. What was the significance? The Italian word for _hovel_, the flames, the skull? Kind of obvious at first but it felt as if there had to be something more to it. The bucking horse on his arm. Why was he called the stallion anyway? It felt like he'd wondered that before but had never bothered to look into it. Perhaps it just wasn't worth ruining the intrigue.

"You know I missed you."

The voice was just beside his ear. His heart stuttered despite his melancholy mood.

Slowly he turned around to look up, meeting the inquisitive caramel eyes of the man who'd almost been his lover. He took a slow breath before parting his lips to speak.

"I…" What did he want to say? _I missed you, too?_ Had he? When he'd returned to a half-demolished CEDEF he'd lain awake at night thinking of what it would be like with Enzo beside him. Company. Ears that listened even when he wasn't speaking aloud.

It must have been on his face. The don's mouth curved in a gentle smile and his hand rose to stroke Alaude's cheek. He closed his eyes and leant into the touch. It was nice. Warm. When he felt the kiss he didn't resist. This was what it felt like to surrender. Somehow, it wasn't the powerless feeling he'd imagined.

Whether it would make him forget or would simply push everything else to the side, he didn't care. As long as it did one of the two.


	4. Chapter Three

**Soundtrack: **Precious - Depeche Mode

**ébréchure  
Chapter Three**

The room was small; sounds of construction, of rebuilding, were prominent past the door, as heavy as it was. The plaster walls were cracked but holding; the smaller repairs would be left for last, as numerous as they were. He sat in a leather chair, slightly worn but comfortable, hands folded on his lap with his legs crossed disinterestedly.

"I want you to keep an eye on him, Alaude," Giotto continued, expression earnest. "You know how much this means to him, and how he acted before the attack. I wouldn't put it past him now to hate me; I can't help him." Even though he'd been so loyal in the beginning, so dedicated, it came to this, didn't it? And there was the unspoken addendum: _Because you're the one closest to the matter._ Because Elena had been the one to bring both him and Daemon Spade into the family, and because she had been so close to him.

His voice was quiet. "Far be it for you to admit that you were wrong."

There was a little twinkle of hurt in Giotto's eye but he only gave a sad smile. "No. And I'm still not."

"It wouldn't have happened if the family was stronger." Matter-of-factly. He watched the don carefully, searching for any sign of regret. But as far as he could see, there was none. Not a single twitch of his lips or curl of his eyebrow. The skin around his eyes was smooth. Utterly undeterred.

"Then it would have been the Vongola, doing this to some other family. That is unacceptable."

"So we become the scapegoat in order to avoid the responsibility of enacting discipline like alphas."

It was quiet for a long time before Giotto replied. His voice was low with determination. "If we have to."

Alaude left in disgust.

-x-

"Did she tell you that I proposed?"

Alaude stiffened. He lifted his teacup to his lips and sipped to hide his surprise, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the man there with annoyance. Any other time he might have left a few coins on the table for the waitress and left, ignoring the newcomer, but his coat was hanging on the back of the chair and his tea was only halfway empty. Not to mention that this was his favourite place to get bergamot.

"Are you following me, Daemon Spade?" he asked mildly. After all, he wouldn't put it past him. He still didn't know how Elena could have put up with him. Such a sneak. He practically exuded untruth, he thought wryly, as the Mist took a seat across the table and crossed his legs leisurely. Good thing he hadn't expected the lack of invitation to matter in the first place.

Flicking a stray piece of hair out of his eyes, Daemon shrugged. Hmph. He couldn't even bother denying it, just for the sake of appearances. For once he was being honest. That made Alaude smile a little in amusement behind the ceramic cup as he let the subtle scent of tea wash over him. It was probably the only reason he was in a good enough mood to put up with this, he reflected idly. Tea always helped his patience.

"It's the only way to get a hold of you, Alaude," he said softly. Unabashedly he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and laid his chin on the backs of his hands. "You didn't answer my question." The midafternoon light reflected in his eyes. Funny; he'd never paid enough attention to notice them. A rather pretty blue. More like the ocean than his own icy azure.

It was his turn to shrug. "Why does it matter?" No, she hadn't, and it rankled him a little to know that she hadn't bothered mentioning it. So the two were engaged. That would explain part of why Daemon had been so broken at her death. Here they were, two months later, and he still thought he saw a thin line on the illusionist's face that hadn't been there before. Of course it would still be painful. Alaude didn't believe in the worth of pain, not in mourning—when someone was dead, they were gone. To suffer for another's demise was the epitome of stupidity. But he had to admit, to himself, that the thought of his cousin still made his chest tighten. It was human nature, and humans were idiotic beings.

"She turned me down, you know."

That caught his attention. He raised his gaze from the tea, gently swirling around the cup, to Daemon. His voice was low, even. At least he didn't sound like he was going to begin sobbing or something equally distasteful. He had to tell himself that his curiosity was just so that he had a better understanding of events. He was in the intelligence business, after all. "Why?"

He gave a rueful smile. It was almost surprising in its bitterness. For a long moment Daemon didn't answer; he seemed taken with the cobblestone street and the passersby. Then his smile widened a little, nearly showing teeth. It was almost painful to look at. "Because she was smart," he murmured. The smile went away suddenly, leaving his expression blank. "But you know, I think she would have said yes."

Alaude's brows furrowed. "Hm?"

"If it weren't for you."

That made him sit back. His shoulders tensed a little. What was this, some sort of blame? As he'd said, Elena hadn't even told him of the proposal. Obviously he wasn't important enough to have interfered with this. He was about to reply sharply when Daemon held up a finger.

"Hear me out," he said softly. His expression was earnest. For a moment it reminded him of the look Enzo always gave him when he was being distant. The effect was dizzying. "I proposed to Elena out of desperation. Surrender, maybe, even. Both our families would have wanted us married years ago; this would have appeased both of them. You know I loved her, Alaude. I'd have done anything for her."

He was beginning to get impatient. Where was this going? Alaude made a motion to continue. It made Daemon chuckle.

"Well," he muttered with a frown, "I'd have done anything but one thing." He lifted his gaze to catch Alaude's firmly. "And she knew it. I couldn't give her one thing—and that was me." His eyes narrowed a little. With a gloved hand he rubbed at his chin thoughtfully as if trying to figure out how to go on, or to decipher the blonde's impassive expression. "So damn hard to read, you know," he said suddenly. "You are _so damn hard to read."_ Suddenly he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward again, inches from his face. Alaude had to set the cup down quickly to avoid spilling it; the sound of it clinking on the table was annoying. He straightened a little as if facing a challenge.

"I'd have done anything for Elena years ago when we first met. Before I joined the family."

Yes. He could remember the soft look Daemon had, had when he'd first come. Doe-eyed at Elena; bewildered at the entire family. When had that slid away?

He felt Daemon's breath hot against his lip and leaned back quickly, looking at him with alarm.

"The first time she introduced us—her suitor and her cousin—do you remember that, Alaude?"

It would have been maddening, this violation of his personal space and the challenge in Daemon's eyes, but something about his vehemence gave him pause. Slowly he nodded. And he did remember; he'd thought he'd seen why Elena was so fond of this aristocrat with the weird hair. There was a blatant potential in him, some sort of confidence that made him memorable. It had been a short meeting.

"After that, I couldn't look at Elena the same. I still loved her. She was still my motivation, the only thing that got me through some days. But she knew why I couldn't face her the same way anymore. I don't know how she did, but you know, she told me when she turned me down—she said, 'If I accept all of you now, Daemon, you'll hate me for it.' She was right, too. I would have resented it."

Abruptly Alaude made a move to stand. This had gone on long enough; he was certain he was listening to the ravings of a madman.

_"Sit down."_

The growl made him stop. Slowly he folded his hands in his lap again, eyes narrowed at the man dangerously. Thin ice, he thought darkly. One more annoying word and Daemon wouldn't wake up until the next week.

"It made me realize something. I knew it already, but really figure it out." Daemon smiled again, and this time it was unsettling. There was something raw about it, almost like a man fighting from his knees. Was it really so hard to say this? It seemed as if he needed to so badly anyway. "I've been in love with two people, Alaude. That was why she wouldn't marry me. She knew it."

That gave him pause. Alaude frowned a little, beginning to frown. "Why tell me this? Do you want me to punish you for being unfaithful to Elena?" Another time it might have been tempting, too. The thought of sweet little Elena being put in second place for something like this was enough to have his fingers clenching a little; he had to stop from reaching for his handcuffs. She ought to have known better than to have thrown in her lot with a man like this.

It brought a sharp laugh from Daemon. He shook his head in disbelief before he reached out and cupped Alaude's chin in a hand and before he could react leaned forward and smashed their lips together. It was a rough kiss, demanding almost to desperation, that froze him for a long moment. With a grunt of surprise that was too imbalanced to be angry Alaude pulled back, nearly overturning the chair in his eagerness to get away. He was already pulling on his jacket, cursing himself for being a little clumsy.

He wouldn't take his eyes off of Daemon, narrowed. What was that? It took until he'd slammed a handful of coins onto the table to realize that he couldn't decide how to feel. Was this some sort of breakdown, coming after the person closest to his dead lover, or had he finally gone mad? The thought of his having neglected Elena for _him_ was astounding. It should have been repulsive but he was too confused to find it so.

"You're an idiot," he finally hissed. Daemon only sneered.

"You're the one who didn't notice," he growled, stepping around the table. Alaude pulled his arm back when he reached for his wrist and turned to go quickly, buttoning his overcoat with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. The hard grip on his shoulder made him pivot, arm raised to punch him. Daemon caught his fist and leaned in again, making him shrink backwards in an attempt to get free, but he couldn't get his hand out of the Mist's. It was infuriating. He'd already lifted a foot to slam down onto Daemon's.

"You know exactly what I'm telling you!" Daemon told him angrily. "Don't you _dare_ run away, Alaude!"

He slammed his heel down and smirked in grim satisfaction at the yelp of pain it earned. Immediately he grabbed Daemon by the collar, pulling him off balance. "Did you touch her like this?" he snarled. "Did you ever raise a hand to her like this, you egotistical _bastard_—!"

Daemon's eyes widened. He was still for a moment, long enough to make him think that perhaps the accusation had brought him back to his senses, but with a sudden yell of rage the Mist lunged forward, slamming into him and pinning him back against the brick wall of the café. Alaude caught a quick glimpse of worried, scandalized onlookers on the street and a waiter too nervous to step into the fray before his gaze was pulled to the sapphire eyes just a couple of inches from his face.

"How dare you say that!" he seethed. All of a sudden, it was a new side to the guardian, he reflected vaguely as he raised his hands to grab Daemon's wrists, struggling at the tight hold on his neck. Daemon hissed a little, growling, never moving his eyes from Alaude's. He was tense, like a spring under too much pressure, nearly trembling. Something about him breathed violence. It was as perturbing as it was exhilarating. _"How dare you think I would hurt her!"_

Alaude should have been alarmed. He should have been fighting hard, he knew, but for some reason he felt suddenly lethargic. He couldn't breathe. It was the oxygen, said a far-off, rational part of his mind. He was already running out of it from his stupid marveling. It took too long to pull his foot back and slam his heel into Daemon's shin, but there was a satisfying crack and immediately the Mist let go, reeling back a little with a glower. He hadn't realized how much effort that had taken until he found himself on his knees, unable to quite make himself stand, hands clutched to his throat as he gulped painful breaths.

He glared up at his attacker from a lowered face, already tasting murder in his mind. _You know how to do this,_ he hissed at himself silently. Slowly, looking ominous, he stood on unsteady legs that he forced still. Pain didn't matter. His hands dropped from his throat and the bruises he could already feel forming there, to the handcuffs tucked into his belt. Was that a little flicker of excitement in Daemon's face? It faded quickly, though, into a frown. He could feel a growl of pleasure already purring in his chest at that as he dashed forward, arm already cocked back to deal a blow, lip curled back in a feral snarl.

His fist met air and his eyes widened angrily. _Son of a bitch._ An illusion. There, weight around his torso, an arm that pinned his to his sides. He struggled furiously. "Coward!" he hissed. "Let me go and I'll kill you quickly, you—"

A hand clamped over his mouth, making him seethe harder. His leg was lifting to kick backwards, hoping to break something. That would be a pleasant feeling. "Shh, Alaude," Daemon murmured in his ear suddenly. He blinked in surprise. Where was the violence of just a moment before? The hand left his lips and gently tugged at the cuffs he held.

He felt his brows furrow in confusion. What was he doing—trying to trick him into disarming himself? No, he shook his head hard, almost hitting Daemon in the process. The anger was draining quickly, gradually replaced with frustration. "You son of a bitch," he whispered, closing his eyes a long time. "Coward."

Daemon only murmured something inaudible in response. It might have been an apology, but no, he knew better than to think that. Slowly he let go, at first only loosening his grip as if testing whether Alaude would attack him again, and then stepped back. He was limping, the blonde noticed with grim bemusement. After a moment of watching him the Mist only shook his head and turned to leave. He looked upset. The first step almost made him fall as he stepped on his bad leg but he caught himself and with a growl disappeared into the crowd.

He stood there a long time, feeling like all the strength had been sapped out of him. It took a while to realize that the waiter was speaking to him, pleading with him to please go, they'd handle the mess. Free of charge. His lips thinned. After a moment of reluctance he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill and, though the man flinched, tucked it into his shirt pocket before he turned and left. Idiot, he hissed silently as he slid onto the street and away, as far away as he could get. What had that been?

It was a struggle not to turn into an alley and lean against a wall, head in his hands. There was a pounding ache between his temples. _Hasn't happened in years._ That bloodlust—that was something from his teenage years, maybe even his early twenties. It had been what, seven years since the last time? Sure, he'd been tempted; it was like some beast encroaching on him in the middle of a battle, when his temper ran high, at the sight of a fight. He raised his collar and buttoned it to hide the marks of Daemon's hands. It was something he'd grown out of, or at least, forced himself to leave behind. It was immaturity, almost bestial in its simple aggression. It had no use. The knowledge that he'd been such a thoughtless thug before was humiliating, in a way.

The crowd didn't change but it was suddenly more suffocating than before; with gritted teeth he ducked down a side road and looked to see that no one was there before he crouched, back to a dirty brick wall, and rubbed his temples. He'd lost his control. It was still frustrating; he could feel the fingers tightening around his neck as if they were still there. He couldn't stop cursing Daemon in his head. All of the guardians would have known that he disliked losing his temper. That it was a point of pride for him to maintain composure even in a battle. Actually, secretly, it was more than pride. When he couldn't control himself, he couldn't trust himself—and he was the only person worth trusting.

Was that why Daemon had stopped and tried to calm him down? He knew that it had been excitement he'd seen at first. It wasn't surprising that the Mist had enjoyed the sight of him so furious. He was a sadist, there was no question about it, not anymore. And as he thought about it he could remember how disappointed he'd always seemed when he'd watched Alaude emerge from a fight completely under rein. He liked to see him without his control. Whether it was because he liked to see him suffer or because he enjoyed the strength that came with it, he didn't know, and he didn't want to imagine. He'd liked it and yet he'd stopped it.

He wasn't thinking straight, he scolded himself harshly. Dirt and small stones grated beneath his feet. Daemon had known his own life was forfeit when Alaude went for blood. He'd only done it to save himself, like the coward he was who started a fight and refused to finish it.

The thought of his doing it for Alaude's sake was troubling in that he'd even entertain it. No. Certainly not thinking straight.


End file.
